Bad Hair Days : Gone With the Wind
by redexted
Summary: Yes, Buttercup finally faces the unavoidable problem for girls — hair trouble!


A silly story featuring Buttercup, just because she has short hair. Miscellaneous supporting OCs included.

Disclaimer: All related characters and elements are (c) Craig McCracken. Scarlett and Rhett are (c) Margaret Mitchell, original author of the titular epic romance.

**Bad Hair Days - Gone With the Wind**

* * *

Advanced Calculus.

Buttercup blinked. The white paper stared back at her.

_Huh?_

She scrunched up her overhanging curtain of hair and looked again, lime green pupils focused on the black title in bold.

Arithmetic Calculations.

Buttercup gave a muffled grumble of frustration. All this hair! It gave her nothing but trouble. And her bangs were getting really long, so long that they practically covered her eyes. And the rest of her hair was now like a horse's mane unbrushed for several weeks. Or rather, seaweed. If she had taken care of it, then perhaps she would have looked better. Or rather, _prettier_. But as we all know, it is almost Mission Impossible II to have her shampoo and comb her hair neatly every single day. And so this is the end result, sad to say.

"All right children," Miss Keane called. "You have thirty minutes to finish this little test. This test is to let you all know the standard of first grade work."

"Awwww . . ." the whole class whined.

"You have to." The teacher smiled brightly. "All of you can't just stay in kindergarten forever, can you? Now settle down and do your work quietly."

Buttercup frowned. She glanced at her sisters. Bubbles was writing her name neatly on the top left corner of the paper, the tip of her tongue poking out in concentration. Blossom was already furiously scribbling away.

She snorted. Of _course_. Blossom _was_ smart. The perfect puff. She knew the answers to everything. By the time she herself and Bubbles were in first grade, she would probably have scooted off to high school.

With a defeated sigh Buttercup picked up her pencil and started doing the sums.

_Q1._ 545+5 ‗‗‗‗‗‗

She blinked again. _Three_ digits? How on earth was she going to solve _that_?

_Q1._ 5+5+5 ‗‗‗‗‗‗

Illusions can be scary.

"To hell with this hair!" she muttered to herself, seething and clenching her fists. Beside her, Blossom glanced at her with a pointed what-did-you-say look. Buttercup scowled at her.

For the next fifteen minutes Miss Keane watched as Buttercup tore at her hair, held her bangs up with her left hand while scribbling with her right hand, chewed the strands in her mouth while she worked with her head bent down, and even went to the extent of tying up her hair messily with a rubber band she found. And that − Miss Keane noted − was done with _great_ reluctance.

"Okay, children! Stop writing! Put down your pencils! And Mitch − _don't_ try to scrunch up the paper. I'll go around and collect it now."

While the teacher went around the room, Blossom retained that gratified look on her face. Bubbles was jumping excitedly in her chair, tittering to another classmate sitting beside her, and discussing the answers.

And Buttercup?

Her head was resting on the table. Her back was hunched. Her arms were dangling under the table. Her matted black hair hanging down her face. It was almost too reminiscent of the infamous star of _The Ring_: Sadako. Something like that.

The shrillness of the bell rang out in every classroom in the school buildings just then. For an instant every little boy and girl erupted into hoorays.

"Thank you Miss Keane!" the children sang. Then all of them poured out of the classroom door. All except . . .

"Buttercup? Can you stay behind for just a minute?"

There. Finally, it was time. Time to announce she ought to be kicked out of kindergarten and go live in the Dumpster instead. Buttercup winced. Though she was sometimes down and dirty, she did not really like the idea of living with rats bigger than the size of her eyes.

"Buttercup, I see your hair is getting a little too long . . ." Miss Keane said, in a very kind tone.

Buttercup stared at her teacher.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to do anything about it?"

"I dunno, Miss Keane. What am I supposed to do?"

Miss Keane sighed. "I guess you don't like long bangs, do you? Then you'd better cut it short. That will make it much tidier."

"Aww . . . do I have to?" Buttercup glanced at her teacher, who was now clearing her throat.

". . . yes Miss Keane," she mumbled, reluctantly.

– – –

Buttercup flew out of the classroom slowly, eyes unfocused and face expressionless. Blossom and Bubbles were waiting outside.

"What did Miss Keane ask you to stay back for?" Blossom half-demanded.

The green puff shrugged casually. "She wants me to trim my hair."

"Really? That's cool! I've not cut mine for a _really_ long time," Bubbles gushed eagerly, tugging at her blond pigtails.

Buttercup rolled her eyes. At that precise point in time there was a sudden breeze; Buttercup's hair slapped itself against her face.

"Urgh!" Annoyed, Buttercup tried to brush the whole lot of hair away. Unfortunately, due to her lack of ears and fingers, no matter how much she flung her hands and yelled in frustration, the wind seemed to sense the humour in this and did not cease blowing, and the hair still remained splattered in front of her eyes.

Blossom watched this entire scene in slight amusement, her arms crossed, her foot tapping. A deep line formed on Bubbles' forehead while she stared at Buttercup, playing with her bag strap and trying to figure out what was happening.

And to prove Miss Keane's point, a particular strand of hair decided to tickle Buttercup's nose. (Here, we assume she has one.)

The tickle travelled up inside her nostrils, through her nerve cells, and finally reaching her brain. And this extraordinary brain of a superheroine messaged one ordinary word.

SNEEZE.

And a big one at that.

Before Bubbles could utter a cry of warning the spit was already blasting its way out with a mega "Ack-CHOO!" from Buttercup. Blossom, unable to duck in time, was instantly splattered with drops of liquid. Her purple eyelids now took up more than half of each orb.

"She got it at the right time too," she muttered, rather sarcastically.

– – –

Buttercup flew along the streets of Townsville. It was a miracle that the Professor had allowed her to go to the hairdresser's alone. "Take this as a chance to learn to be independent," he had encouraged. "And _keep the change!_ Don't throw it away or spend it or . . . whatever. Understand?"

Buttercup stared at the ten-dollar bill as she floated along, distractedly waving to the folks of Townsville who occasionally called out "Hello Buttercup!" or "The Powerpuff _Girl_? Why aren't your sisters with you?" or "Got lost, Buttercup?"

The face of the president stared back at her grimly, unmoving and unsmiling. Buttercup frowned. How serious! Heck, if she could, she would have tickled him or something until he forced a smile. Or maybe she would have made him cry. _That_ would make a valuable collectable currency in the future.

Buttercup halted in front of a neon sign.

_CEE-CEE HAIRSTYLING_

Her green eyes flickered down.

_Haircut: 8 dollars for adults, 4 dollars for children_

"Good." Buttercup shrugged. "I can go have two haircuts and still have money left over. I'll buy some gum later."

The bells on the glass door jingled. "Good afternoon my dear — oh! Buttercup! This is _great_! One of the Powerpuff Girls has come to do up her hair!"

Buttercup winced. _This woman is a squillion times worse than Bubbles!_ Buttercup thought, shuddering. She scanned the woman towering before her, from her hidden toes to the tip of her hair.

Well, she _tried_ to.

Miffed, Buttercup rose up slowly into the air until her head was level with the lady's. The latter raised an eyebrow.

The lady had spiked hair that was dyed blue and silver and sprinkled with glitter. Silver hoops gleamed from her ears. A leather chain hung from the neck down to the middle of her chest, where there was a huge disc-like pendant. There were also thin silver bangles and a metal chain belt circling around and hanging down her waist. She had on a black blouse with wide sleeves down to the elbows, hip-hugging black jeans, and shining black ankle boots.

Buttercup blinked innocently while she tried to hide the smile forcing its way up the corners of her mouth. This lady was a walking fashion store all right. Or rather, a walking _durian_ having Monday blues. Buttercup slapped the bill against her own face, laughing away behind it soundlessly.

"Hello-o? Earth to Buttercup?"

Buttercup lowered the dollar bill, only to see the lady's bright brown eyes as she waved into her face. The Powerpuff flashed a nervous smile, opening just one eye to look at her. "Um . . . yeah. I'm here for a haircut."

"A _haircut!_" the woman cried, as if those were the most magical words she had ever heard. "Then you've come to the right person! Oh — by the way, my name's Connie DeSherna. You can call me Con. Con DeSherna. Get it?" She winked.

Buttercup rolled her eyes. "Yeah," she mumbled.

"And this is — just wait a mo . . ." She ran in and pulled out a man yelling and cussing. "This is my dear partner Caesar Sankum! And — put down your things for a moment, will ya?" She scowled at him.

"What the (bleep) do you think you're doin'?" the man was waving a squeeze bottle of shampoo and the other hand spraying foam all over. "I was just washing this really lovely chick's — oh." The bottle hit the floor. "What a . . . pleasant . . . surprise?"

Buttercup was already rolling on the floor and laughing away, regardless of all the locks of cut hair in varying colours that was scattered all over. "_Conditioner?_ And now this! _Scissors and comb!_ Hahahahaha! What awesome partners you two are! And how _absurd_ can you get? This has gotta be the most (bleep) thing I've ever heard!"

Caesar and Connie both widened their eyes. They looked at Buttercup, then at each other, then at Buttercup again.

"Where did you learn that word, Buttercup? You're only five years old and . . ."

Buttercup stopped laughing instantly. With a nonchalant grin she pointed at Caesar.

Connie glared at her partner, who raised both arms and grinned rather sheepishly.

"_We-ll_ . . ." he trailed off. "I — I gotta go finish the shampooing now . . . see ya!" With a wave of his hand he darted back into the shop.

"_How dare you_ — oh, forget it. Now Buttercup, why don't you come here and sit down?" There was a grin plastered on Connie's face.

"Duh," the green puff muttered. She hovered over to where Connie indicated and sat down on the black leather chair.

And of course there was something wrong. Very wrong.

Connie rushed to take a long wooden board and place it on the armrests. Even then Buttercup could only see the tip of her hair.

A stool.

Her chin was cut off.

Finally, a styrofoam box. Buttercup glared at herself in the mirror. "Ew. I look like crap."

"Of course you don't, dear. Don't talk like that —"

"I wanna shave bald. Like Eminem."

"_No you can't_. Now sit still and tell me how you want me to cut your hair. Properly."

Buttercup sulked, crossing her arms angrily and refusing to say anything. She had her pride! She had attitude. Of course she wasn't going to say something _properly._

Connie sighed. "All right, you win. You gotta trim that fringe of yours, Buttercup. You want it cut to what it looked like before?"

"Nah. That's so uncool. I wanna hair like yours."

"You _can't!_" Connie was seething. _God bless you, Professor Utonium_, she said a silent prayer. Who knows whether the other two girls spelt trouble as well?

"Okay. I tell you what — I'll give you a totally new image. How's that?"

"What kinda image?"

"I call it. . . _Gone With the Wind_."

"Huh?"

Connie was suddenly possessed by George of the Jungle, and zipped to the middle of the salon amidst all that hair, much to the surprise of the other customers. "_This!_ — is my very own creation! Just let your hair be touched by my magic finger and _poof!_ — a chic chick you'll instantly be! And I promise you, you'll be so touched you won't want to visit another salon again!"

For an entire minute Connie stayed in her dramatic, exaggerated pose, arms stretched wide, feet almost four feet apart (which was a mean feat, considering a regular human being has only two feet), and with a megawatt grin on her face — the kind Buttercup usually saw on those mannequins in boutique display windows. Now, Connie looked like an exploding durian with several screws and nails loose. With a rather unnecessary audience that was the other curious customers in the salon.

The ingenuous Buttercup broke the ice. "Of course I'll be touched!" she quipped. "I mean, your finger would've already touched my head, right?"

Connie snapped out of her trance. One could almost see the sweatdrop sliding down the side of her face.

"Ah, never mind. Basically —" Connie appeared behind Buttercup and flipped her short hair. "_Gone With the Wind_ will give you that . . . that awesome fluffed-up look. You know, when you've been standing at the beach for too long and your hair feels light and floaty? Do you understand?"

For a few moments Buttercup stared at her reflection. Her eyelids arched down towards the centre. _Sounds nice_, she thought. _If it really looks that great maybe I can show off to everyone in school tomorrow! And Blossom and Bubbles will be SO jealous of me. Now _that_ would be cool!_

By then there was a really smug look on Buttercup's face, and she was sniggering away with an audible 'heh heh heh'. Her black Mary-Janes swung back and forth so hard, one of them popped out of her feet and smashed into the mirror before her.

"Oh (bleep)!"

Buttercup flew to the other side of the salon in a streak of lime green. Fortunately, no one was hurt from the smashing of the mirror. Unfortunately, the whole salon was sprinkled with sharp pieces of glass. Fortunately, Buttercup acted like a human vacuum cleaner and sucked them neatly into the rubbish bin in no time. Unfortunately, most of the customers had already freaked out and disappeared from the salon.

"This ain't a good place for hair-cutting," she complained, swiping the tip of her nose with her hand. (Here we still assume she has one.)

Connie sank into one of the leather chairs wearily. "," she mumbled, the words strung together till it was almost incomprehensible. Her head drooped to one side.

"Well, well, well. You're one tough angel, aren't you," Caesar said with a tight smile, left hand planted on the hip, right hand resting on the handle of a trolley. There was something on it, and it was covered with a red cloth.

He looked at Buttercup through his white-rimmed glasses. Buttercup shifted from one foot to another, with arms tucked behind her back, grinning embarrassedly.

"Come on outside. It's time to be _Gone With the Wind_."

– – –

Buttercup sat on a high wooden stool, armed with wooden drumsticks in each hand. In front of her was a miniature drum set, complete with the hi-hat and drum pedals raised to a reasonable height.

She blinked.

And she was instantly draped with a light blue cloth from the neck downwards, the drumsticks poking out from the sides.

Then something was stuffed into her ears. Hard. (Now we assume she _has_ ears.)

"Hey! What the hell is —" Buttercup pulled out the object that was in her left ear: they were tiny wireless earphones. "Oh well." She pushed it back in.

"And now I present to you — the Rock Version of _GONE WITH THE WIND!_" Caesar, suddenly dressed in a blinding white suit with ridiculously long coattails, raised a pair of scissors in his right hand, and a comb in his left, and stood behind Buttercup.

An orchestral blast shot its way up her spine, where it tingled violently. So much so that Buttercup's hair flared up like a lion's mane.

"Perfect," Caesar whistled. Then he started snipping. It was a dramatic presentation of Caesar's scissors, over and over again.

– – –

As the soundtrack from the movie travelled into her ears, Buttercup felt something magical. Something enchanting. Something fantastic. Something extraordinarily powerful. The power of music. The power of . . . _love_.

Images flickered themselves into place behind Buttercup's eyelids.

_Scarlett O'Hara was desperate, trying to search for Rhett Butler. Flashing images of the Civil War. Her family . . ._

The drumsticks slammed up and down in a constant beat; the cymbal was tapped every now and then; the hi-hat slapped together and apart. Caesar's head was swaying as well in time to the drumbeat, his scissors moving along skillfully.

_Snip. Snip. Snip._

Buttercup's black hair fell down in small thin tufts, blowing away, blowing away in the wind. Gone With the Wind.

_Scarlett's lonesome image faded away. In place, slowly becoming clearer and clearer was someone else. Someone tall, with dark, dark shades. Someone that she recognised as . . ._

"Ace?"

Horrified, Buttercup tried to peel her eyelids open, but she was still too engrossed in the music, and lacked any energy to do anything except _ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom_.

_She was an older version of herself, dancing with Ace in a grand hall. Their hair looked so similar that it was hard to differentiate one's from the other's. She was in a ridiculously frilly pink gown. For once, just _this_ once, she felt pretty. She did not find anything wrong with wearing a dress. Perhaps, just perhaps, she _still_ felt something for Ace . . ._

"Mmm." Buttercup was smiling dreamily to herself. "I'm . . . Gone With the Wind . . ."

_Snip. Snip. Snip._

– – –

Behind the girl, a short figure suddenly jumped out and stuffed a wad of cloth into Caesar's mouth, before snatching his scissors, tying him up with rope, and dumping him to the back of the salon building. All in one second. And this figure continued snipping Buttercup's hair in Caesar's place.

_Snip. Snip. Snip._

– – –

Her drumsticks rattled on the snare drum, and Buttercup floated off her stool, suddenly grabbing 'Caesar' and dancing with him, still in her wonderful daydream.

"What the —" The voice was unexpectedly gruff, but Buttercup continued dancing, head level with her partner's. Her eyes remained closed. "Oh _Rhett,_" she was singing.

The mysterious figure was too bewildered to say anything else. And it was after the last music track died out in the earphones did Buttercup open her eyes.

Right into a pair of yellowed simian eyeballs.

"_Mojo!_" Buttercup flew out of the primate's grasp and started being sick. Mojo Jojo was laughing hysterically, the purple patterns on his turban swirling dizzily.

"_Mwahahahaha!_ Poor Buttercup . . . I could have killed you when you were singing that song in such dreadful pitches, but . . ." Mojo laughed once more. "I've thought of a much better plan!"

"Yeah, right! I bet you've got more than just a screw loose somewhere up your moronic turban!" With a sneer and a yell Buttercup punched the daylights out of Mojo. "What the hell are you doing here? Where's the Scissors and Comb?"

"You don't have to know, _Powerless_ Girl!" Mojo sprang up from the grass and his semi-consciousness, whipping out a laser gun and pointing it straight at Buttercup. "One down, two to go! And now, breathe your last!"

"I don't think so." Buttercup plucked the tiny black earphones from her ears, flicked them towards Mojo and . . .

_Fip!_

"Spot-on!" Buttercup punched her fist into the air in victory, as Mojo clutched his groin, hopping around and yelling in pain, his laser gun abandoned in the grass.

"Why, you puny Powerpuff! How dare you . . ."

And before he could finish his sentence, Buttercup gave him a good kick up his butt, and all too soon he disappeared into the blue sky. "Mojo Jojo's blastin' off again!" his voice wailed and faded, and with a _ting!_ he was gone. With the Wind.

"Some people just deserve more than simple hiney-whoopin'," Buttercup muttered. An unnaturally cooling wind licked the nape of her neck. She looked around and saw Caesar, his white suit soiled and spoiled under the tight rope around his body.

Buttercup flew to his side and untied him. The ball of cloth popped out from his mouth. "You okay?"

Caesar's eyes danced about in their sockets. "Yeah. . ." He sat up groggily and stared at Buttercup. "But you don't look so well yourself . . ."

"Huh?"

"Look into a mirror . . ."

And what was supposed to be a wonderful, tousled look was now. . .

"A _mushroom head!_ Aarrgh! I'm not gonna get eaten by Mario in some stupid Nintendo game! Eeww!" And she blacked out.

And so the day is ruined . . . thanks to Mojo Jojo. Again.

_-fin-_

* * *

Mojo just doesn't have great hairstyling skills, does he? ;)

I thought Buttercup became a bit OOC along the way, but heck. Reviews are very welcome, thank you! :D More Bad Hair Days in the future, if this passes as a 'good' fic . . .


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